Drunken Friends

There is a particular personality that I feel undeniably compelled to write about. Now, by personality, I mean of course a specific type of person that we have all undoubtedly come in contact with at some point in our life. These people are those special individuals that enact what I call, the "drunken Jekyll and Hyde." They act one way sober, and well, when drunk they might as well be toting a 1850s cane and smashing children with their boorish charm.

            Yes, these lucky individuals prey upon the weak and vulnerable by attempting to be your friends in the daylight. They always have many things in common, whether it be music, video games, hobbies or what have you. It is of course not to say that we do not abstain from drinking with these individuals; this is no testament to a I art holy than thou creed, but rather, we can hold our liquor not better per se, but more intelligently. When we drink, we enhance our better qualities. We become more charming, humorous, witty, loving, etc. This is not a self proclaimed drunken epiphany, but it is something that is constantly reinstated by those closest to us like friends and family. Thus it goes without saying that those of us who lack similar tack must not only be doing something wrong, but must deceiving those closest to them through a false sense of security, as well as, how does one frame this with the most insightful of delicacy?: a poopy outlook on life.

            Of course, these unfortunate individuals do not come without their perks. Yes, while telling stories, where would we be without said individuals who provide the true content to the most hilarious of college memories.

To Watch or Not to Watch!

As many of you know, Nick and I do not have cable. This is not because we “not believe in it,” quite the contrary. We love cable, so much in fact that if we had it we would probably never leave the house. It is some faceless temptress capable of holding your attention to the most drull of shows and marathons for hours.

It also costs about $60 a month which we rather spend on buying more cats which as a rule do not transform our productive time into a blackhole of procrastination.

We do still get our show fix, but instead of cable, we must rely on Netflix Online Instant Shows. The difference is not too different from eating by automatic feeder versus deciding on dinner at the grocery store. Both are ridiculous and have their draw backs.

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 The automatic feeder would be cable (always available for the snacking, putting no thought or effort into it.) If you are a hungry cat (or ridiculous lazy human being who uses an automatic feeder) you can feast whenever the mood strikes you. This is also true with cable, if you have nothing to do, you grab the remote, problem solved, boredom resolved. Sure you may spend sometime flipping through channels, but at least you are watching something!

CABLE 

The Automatic Feeder of Entertainment!

Cable (Automatic Feeders)

Pros: You can watch shows without any forethought (you can eat whenever)

Cons: No forethought means you watch it approximately 20/ 24 hours of the day, also less money for cats (you get fat)

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Netflix works differently. Imagine having to go to the grocery store every time you wanted something to eat!

This is how it is with Netflix. I often spend hours just making the decision of what I want to watch, deciding between this stupid show I have never watched or that silly movie only to come upon something as unoriginal a choice as Family Guy.

NETFLIX Watch Instantly

The Costco of entertainment!

Netflix (Going to the grocery store every time you are hungry)

Pros: Options- and $60 dollars to spend on buying more cats!! (Opitions!!)

Cons: Waste precious tv time searching for what to watch only to settle on something stupid (the amount of gas it would take to drive to the grocery stores 5+ times a day)

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Having a husband to help choose a Netflix Watch Instantly movie sounds like it would make your world a brighter place full of peace and harmony, complementary unicorns and rainbows included.

A PERFECT WORLD

Spouse #1 “Oh watch whatever you want, I can’t find anything”

Spouse #2 “I appreciate you enabling me to make this decision. I feel very loved, wise and important. Hmmm. We will watch... Zoolander.”

Spouse #1 “Huzzah! We are supreme in making decisions. Your wisdom has dictated Zoolander, and that is how we will spend the evening. In honor of your glorious choice I will wash the dishes.

Spouse #2 “Huzzah! We are the best couple in the universe!”

This scenario above has probably only happened maybe once in my life. The only reason I do not remember is because anything of the “perfect world” nature is drowned by memories of a far more ridiculous type.

THE REAL WORLD

The show you want to settle for is something your husband absolutely doesn’t want to watch or feel simply feels “eh” about. When you suggest something, he suggests something to one-up it that you hate even more than his orginal choice. When you open the doors to the possibility of a new genre you are now half way down the river of never making a compromise and have thrown your oar into the murky waters (and the conversations go on and on.) 

Spouse #1 “Well I wouldn’t mind a comedy, or a documentary, or maybe a paranormal horror film. Are there any comedy documentaries about the making of paranormal horror films?”

Spouse #2 “I don’t think so. Plus I was in the mood for a movie with more action or maybe a political drama. What about Candid?”

Spouse #1 “Well I saw a political drama last year so I am pretty good on those for the time being. Hey look, they have Alice in Wonderland! That has imagination, which you like, right? What about that?”

Spouse #2 “The old one or the new one?”

Spouse #1 “Both!”

Spouse #2 “No that’s ok. What about Charade?”

Spouse #1 “That isn’t a comedy, well I guess it sort of is. But it isn’t a documentary or a paranormal horror film and certainly not a political drama like you wanted.”

Spouse #2 “Yah but I was sort of in the mood for Charade.”

Spouse #1 “Why don’t you want to watch the new Alice in Wonderland? Oh look they have Bio Dome!”

6 years and 10,000 movie suggestions later

Spouse #2 “You really don’t want to watch Robocop? It’s a classic!”

Spouse #1 “No more of a classic than Ping Pong Playa!"

Spouse #2 “Fine let’s just watch Alice in Wonderland. We would have been halfway through the movie already”

Spouse #1 “I don’t feel like watching that anymore.”

Spouse #2 “What!”

Spouse #1 “I wanted to watch it 4 minutes ago, now I feel more like a buddy action comedy.”

When choosing what to watch out of 10,000 possibilities “too many cooks in the kitchen” is any number of people more than 1 individual.

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It takes me 40 minutes on average to figure out what to watch and approximately 5 days with the help of my husband. We always end up just settling for a King of the Hill episode as a compromise. Only problem is, we have already seen every episode twice. 

DO NOT EAT THE ICE!!

Three things my mother told me during childhood still reverberate in my mind,

1.) “Don’t hit your brothers!”

2.) “When sharing between two people; one person cuts and the other person chooses,” and

3.) “Do not eat the blue ice from ice packs.”

The first one was unfortunate because hitting my brothers was one of the best past-times allotted to me. The second one was extremely wise and I still utilize it to this day. The third one I took a little too seriously, at too young of an age.

I was 5 years old and some stupid girl “hurt” herself on the playground. “Hurt” means that she was more embarrassed than physically injured and wanted some ice to justify her loud “BooHoo-ing.” Our Yard-Duty (yeah, remember those?) gave her a little plastic baggy with two tiny pieces of ice in it to justify her sobbing to the peers who had gathered around her. She instantly calmed down with this magical bag of ice placed gingerly over her elbow. As tears turned to sniffs, the rest of the class went back to their recess games. For some reason I kept watching her long enough to notice that the ice was dripping out of the corner of the bag.

She raised the bag to look at it and started drinking the water that dripped from the corner. She was drinking the water from the ice pack!

I was mortified! My mom always taught me to never lick the ice she used to heal our wounds. Remember, “Do not eat the blue ice from ice packs?” Well, five-year-old me certainly did!

 "DO NOT EAT!"

However, my “five-year-old self” didn’t realize that my mom was referring to those blue ice packs you keep in the freezer for emergencies and the Yard-Duty only gave this dumb girl two pieces of normal ice. I thought this girl was going to get sick and die because her mom never told her to not lick the ice.

TOTALLY FINE TO EAT! 

(You will, in fact, not die from licking it as it drips out the bag!)

(Rebekah found this out too late!)

I stormed over to the girl and warned her solemnly, “You can’t drink that. You will die!”

I do not remember exactly what I said. It was probably much more morbid and worse than this general interpretation; because next thing I know, I am on “Time-Out” for 10 minutes.

I never apologized and I never understood why I was on time out. I remember sitting on the bench kicking my legs forward and backwards being confused. Mostly I was thinking, “This is not much of a punishment for someone who probably saved that little girl’s life.”

From my “Time-Out” corner I saw her spit out the water she had sipped from the ice. She knew I was on to her.

Not Your Average Glass of Water

I have had much scarier things occur in my life, but this tale sticks out (probably because I was so young and had the responsibility of playing host to a group of friends).

It was a sleepover at my place. Four of my best friends and I were all between the ages of 8 and 9. We were hanging out in my room at the late hour of 9 pm or 10 pm chatting away.

(Remember at 8 years old you are afraid of the dark, other people’s houses, and well, mostly just the dark.)

Aly was thirsty and wanted a glass of water. Although I was the party host, I was afraid to walk down the dark hall, past the front door and into the kitchen all by myself. What if there were wolves, or a monster, or who knows?

I tried to pawn the job of on someone else by saying it was my responsibility to stay with the group. However, after much debating and “No! YOU do it!”s we all agreed to walk down the hall, past the front door, and into the kitchen TOGETHER. This would assure that no one would have to go by themselves, and no one would be left behind.

I lead the frightened procession with my posse backing me up. I remember we kept poking each other in the ribs to scare each other before we even made it out of my room. My pulse was racing, but in my head I knew that there was nothing actually scary in my house. The hallway at night was the same hallway during the day. I visualized myself turning the light on to the empty kitchen and us all laughing our cares away at how stupid we were.

We inched down the hallway with many a, “shut up you guys!” and “wooOooOos!” and even a “BOO!” by our most annoying friend. I turned with a big, “SHHHH! If my mom hears this she will separate us!” They annoying friend only got one sentence out about ghosts attacking Ruth before I gave another “SHHH!” Great, now I was also worried about ghosts.

At that everyone gained their composure and we got past the scariest part (passing the front door) with no problems. Everything was dark and I had to let my hand trace up the wall to find the kitchen switch. This pause was very dramatic. It was five girls huddled in a doorway awaiting the kitchen to be illuminated.

The funny part is that we all knew we were being silly. I continued to imagine myself getting the glass from the cabinet and us all laughing it all off.

My hand found the switch and our eyes were pulled to something large moving on the counter. Our ten eyes locked on to a large creature eating a bit out of a cantaloupe on the counter.

I remember the animal being bigger than the juicy melon, but mostly the rodent’s surprised, furry face looking straight at us. After what felt like eternity, one girl let out a shrill scream and our new friend leaped off the counter and dove across the floor, under the dishwater.

I don’t remember if we ever got Aly her water.

The rat was not what was scary, it was the fact that we had set ourselves up for a big laugh over nothing and were denied that fun! Maybe it would not have been so scary if we hadn’t psyched ourselves out so much.

Yep, below is what it pretty much looked like.

 From http://canadianredneck.com

To this day, I can not decide if that rat is what made the party, or what ruined it. Sure it was gross and uninvited, but it was also memorable and taught us to sometimes expect the expected.

Come to think of it, maybe that’s why I did not have too many more sleepovers in that house.

Rebekah is Too Cool for Elementary School

I was lucky enough to remember the very first moment I realized that I was cooler than someone else.

I was six and in Ms. Floor’s first grade class.Ms. Floor was the tallest woman I had ever met. It was pretty funny her name was Floor considering how much time she spent towering above it.In later years, I would ask my mom if Ms. Floor was really that tall, or if it was my warped childhood imagination. My mom assured me she was really that tall; 6’ 1” to be exact.

Ms. Floor was a good teacher though, so I am happy she found her way to Evergreen Elementary instead of the WNBA.

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Exactly 98% of women during the late 80s time period were named “Amanda,” “Jessica,” and/ or “Ashley.”

As any child born in the late 80s knows, all females of that era are named “Amanda,” “Jessica,” and/ or “Ashley.” (See above for the scientific quote I made up) The other 1% had the name “Rebekah”, and the other 1% had YOUR name (if you are a girl who was born in the late 80s).I do not have to cite any proof because everyone knows this.

Still don’t believe me? Watch the TV show “Recess.” There are approximately 247 girls named “Ashley” at their fictional elementary school which I happen to know is based on real data from real American elementary schools country-wide. I am sure of this; there is no need to dispute it.

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Still don’t believe me? There were exactly 3 “Jessica’s” in Ms. Floor’s first grade class. I am not joking. Assume half the children in a class of 20 were girls, that would make 3/10 girls in my class named “Jessica”. That is 30%; which is also sincerely ridiculous.

“How do you tell them apart?” The stupid reader who has no experience with name-pluralism may ask.  When more than one child has the same first name we have to go to the last initial as in, “John C. and I went to John A.’s house after school on Friday.” This makes everything very clear and everybody knows this (unless you are the stupid reader who has no experience with name-pluralism)

This proved problematic because Ms. Floor would have had two “Jessica H”s; as in “Jessica H.”, the other “Jessica H.”, and “Jessica S.” To solve that problem we went to the first and second initial. We then had Jessica Ha, Jessica Ho, and Jessica S. Mrs. Floor was full of solutions.

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Now for those who may not know, my last name also starts with the letter S. Because I was the only “Rebekah” in the class, no one really cared about my last name; which was fine by me. I guess if one were seriously curious they could have turned their head to the left to see the class list written on the wall.

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Jessica S. apparently had what she thought as a clever sense of humor.

One day she pulled my arm to her and pointed out the clever, clever realization that both our last names started with the letter S. No matter that my last name was Sousae and hers was something like Smith or Samsonvillesmithson.

She looked me in the eye; which was rather scary because her face looked so happy it might explode. “We can tell everyone we are sisters!” Jessica S.’s maniac expression beamed the message that “this was the bestest idea ever and Rebekah is lucky I chose to share this experience with her rather than Megan S”!

Here was the creepy part, not only was I not friends with Jessica S, I barely knew her! However, I went along with it because, after all, what six year-old doesn’t want to have a friend that instantly accepts them as their sister?

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Jessica S. dragged me to one unsuspecting classmate named Brett and told him of our new found sisterhood (since both are last names started with the letter S). Even "six year-old" me knew this was lame.

Who would believe we were sisters since both are last names started with the letter S? What if he turned left and saw the remaining letters of our last name on the class list? That is the first thing I would have done.  

Brett just gave us a stupid look and said, “OK…” The sad thing is he did not even care enough to tell us we were stupid. Did I mention we were all six?

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After our brief encounter with Brett, I had fully realized how seriously lame this was. He did not even care enough to call us out as the liars we were.

We spent the whole day running to each person in the class so Jessica S. could proudly announce that we were long-lost sisters (since “both are last names started with the letter S”). Jessica S. looked so excited the whole time, and I just ended up dragging my feet more and more (all the while regretting that “both are last names started with the letter S”). “You don’t believe we are long-lost sisters? Well how come both our last names start with the letter S!” she would cleverly declare. (Also do not look at the list of class names to your left.)

And by “whole day” I really mean the “whole day”. We spent class, recess, more class, lunch, and more class telling everybody this “clever” lie for no apparent reason.

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It was now the end of the day and time to reflect on our new found sisterhood which I did not care for in the least. “Wasn’t that so much fun Rebekah?!” There was no end to her madness.

“Of course, Jessica S! This was about as much fun as whacking a pack of badgers. I am embarrassed at your lack of intellect. This was border-line insane. No one would believe we are sisters “because our last names start with the letter S”. I know we are 6, but come on! Show some respect for the general intelligence of our peers”

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Instead I said, “Super fun! We fooled them all!”

I avoided her for weeks. Even at six I had a reputation to hold on to. My young classmates thinking I was an idiot during the first week of school would win me no favors.

At the wise age of six, I simply told myself, “I am too cool for this crap.”

 -Rebekah Sousae

The Race for Coffee

     Many of the customers that come into my store are simply interesting and that is the only, well, the kindest way to explain their behaviors. Some particular customers grab my attention by the uncanny ability to avert my attention from whatever task I’m doing and either laugh or cry to myself. For example, there are the customers that have apparently just come from some sort of jog or a running marathon, and have chosen my coffee shop as their finish line. Countless customers have come in drenched with sweat only to exhaustedly wave a hand to my greeting of “hello! What can I get for you?” as they proceed to the bathroom to pass out from their exhausting journey to our store.
   
     These customers also tend to leave the store without ordering anything with the exception of free water, so while they are evidently dead in our bathroom I always begin to think to myself – “are there no other rest stops on their long journey except our coffee store off a busy intersection? Is this the first time they have ever gone jogging and are thus unaware that they can and should actually bring their own water if they plan on jogging any distance on a 100° day?” Perhaps I should be honored that these athletic individuals have chosen my store’s bathroom out of the no doubt countless miles they have traveled to arrive at a coffee store.

            There is another type of customer of the athletic orientation that similarly amuses my often “bored-at-work” mind as well. We often have many cycling customers that, like their marathon running brethren, have apparently detoured from the Tour de France, and have graced our store with their sweaty, tired presence. They come in to our store with tight spandex cycling apparel looking as though they’re only taking a second break before jumping back on their bikes and continuing their race. The thing I find most amusing however, is that they always come in wearing their helmets causing me, without fail, to duck and look towards the ceiling while covering my own head as if some part of the ceiling is falling and only our customers had the foresight to wear protective gear before coming into our deteriorating store.

Dear Families Who Hold Garage Sales and Include a Sentimentality Tax or Some Silly Poop in the Price of Their Wares to Justify their Expense,

Families who hold garage sales and include sentimentality tax or some silly poop in the price of their wares to justify their expense do not understand basic economics. If you have worthless junk, you sell it at a garage sale for cheapy prices. End of story.

That is how the system works for all sane Americans everywhere. How do people justify charging store prices for their used items?

No, I will not pay $15 for your prized smelly sneakers you have had since the 5^th grade. I don’t care if you won second place in the Junior Olympic race for children whose parents don’t understand economics.  They were fabricated in the 1980s and you obviously wore them through a puddle or sizable marshy moat.

This is not the “Boutique Anderson.” Remember people barely want your crap. Prices should reflect this.

I price your smelly sneakers at negative $2. That means you have to give me $2 as a fee for taking these poor excuses for footwear off your hands.

The goal is to get rid of the stuff, not exhaust every penny out of your neighbors.

Once I was at a Garage Sale run by people who mostly thought their old junk was worth a generous 2% discount off the original purchase price. All the typical worthless objects of family life were available. A pretty Jewelry box caught my eye and I asked the price.

The lady looked at me like my inquiring of the price was uncalled for and a huge inconvenience. Honestly you would think these people wanted to sell their stuff, what with the huge “Sale” signs everywhere.

Looking at me like a complete idiot must have given her some inner satisfaction because she continued to do it while she told me to, “Check the bottom.”

I turned the jewelry box over expecting to see one of those bright happy sale dots with a handwritten 3 or maybe even 5 if they were stingy. This would represent that 3 or 5 dollars respectively would be required of someone to take the jewelry box off their property without constituting a robbery.

Turning the box over revealed that I was mistaken. There in clear daylight was a ROSS label and the low, low price of $18.

Is your Garage Sale being sponsored by ROSS or do you just assume their pricing model is superior to what families typically do at yard sales? It was so obvious that this poor excuse for a lady had purchased it and did not want to exert the tremendous amount of energy it would have required to take off the price tag.

“But what if it was new and unused?” asks the precocious reader who feels entitled to root for the little guy!

May I remind you that the little guy in this case is apparently the crazy Garage Sale Lady?

I slowly opened the top to assess the level of use the box experienced in the stingy household of Mrs. Stingy McStindgeyson.

Inside the box welded around the edges was dust, a small button, the back of an earring, and a broken bracelet clasp.


Last I checked ROSS did not make it a point to include these items in their jewelry storage devices.

I thought of a fitting tirade to put her in her place. “Yes, lady! I am on to you! That box was used and abused! No, I will not pay $18; I barely wanted to buy it when I thought it could have been $5!”

Instead I just placed it back gently and walked home.

-Rebekah